


early in the morning, i'll come calling

by gracelinne



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/F, High School AU?, and everyone else is the same, bookshop au?, coffeeshop AU?, harry and louis are cis girls, idk - Freeform, this fic is many things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracelinne/pseuds/gracelinne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry likes the bookshop downtown.  She also likes taking pictures and Louis.  Louis likes singing mopey songs about Harry.  Everyone else is just waiting for something to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	early in the morning, i'll come calling

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT IS THIS  
> I DON'T KNOW  
> YOU DON'T KNOW  
> I'M SO TIRED RIGHT NOW  
> (I wrote most of this fic at 3:30 in the morning while also trying to cram for finals.)

Harry likes the scent of old books.  Maybe that’s why she spends so much time in the second-hand bookshop on the corner of Walter and Hazelnut, but sometimes it’s just the people in there.  Like Amy, the tall, ginger woman who runs the shop.  She makes Harry a cup of tea every Saturday, some sort of gingery spice blend mixed with orange.

Sometimes it’s just the feeling of being in a place filled with stories and words.  She especially likes coming here when it’s pouring, rain beating on the windows like stones.

The bell over the door tinkles against the rush of rain, and Harry glances up from her book.  She’s in a corner between bookcases, pillows piled high.  It’s a corner that Amy has created just for her, since “you’re in here enough, and I don’t want your excessive AP homework taking up all our tables.”  Harry never does homework in the bookshop, though, so she thinks maybe Amy just likes her.

“Harry’s over there,” says Amy’s voice from the counter.  Harry shuts her book and glances through the bookshelf to the floor beyond.  A pair of scuffed, heavy black combat boots are walking towards her hiding spot.

“Hi, Zayn,” she calls, pushing her curls behind one ear.  Zayn looks around the shelf, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth.

“It was my shoes, wasn’t it.”  It’s not a question, but Harry nods anyway.  Zayn sits down next to her, elbows on knees, and studies her.  “You need to get outside more,” he says.  Harry raises her eyebrows.

“It’s pouring, Z,” she says incredulously, and Zayn rolls his eyes.  

“Not now, you idiot, but you look like a ghost with really bad dark circles.  Get some sun.”  He sounds worried, like her well-being legitimately matters to him.  Harry shrugs.

“I’ll go outside when I have to,” she tells him, opening her book.  He sighs, pulling a book off the shelf just above her head.  

“‘Kay, Haz,” he says, nudging her with his foot until she grins.

 

xx

 

It snows on Sunday night.  Harry walks to school on Monday, hands buried deep in the pockets of her oversized utility jacket.  At lunch she sits out in the frozen courtyard with Zayn and Niall, who toss grapes back and forth.  They mostly miss each other and end up hitting Harry, but she doesn’t care.  Her afternoon classes go by in the blink of an eye -- she almost falls asleep in French and is only jerked awake when Ben starts coughing in the corner.  

Niall takes the bus home with her to pick up a movie he left at her house last weekend.  As she turns on the Christmas tree lights, he opens the fridge and pours a glass from the carton of eggnog.

“Make yourself at home,” Harry says, climbing the stairs to her room.  

“Thanks, Haz!” Niall calls from the kitchen.  Harry’s cat is curled on her pillow, and Harry takes a second to fall onto the bed and pet her for a second before grabbing Niall’s movie from the bookcase that serves as her bedside table.

“Do you want to watch the second episode of Orphan Black?” she asks Niall as she comes back down the stairs.

“Got nothin’ better to do,” he says by way of an answer, and follows her into the den.  As she’s hooking her computer up to the TV, he flops lengthwise onto the loveseat.

“Oi, save room for me,” Harry warns, clicking the play button.  Niall sits up and puts his arm out and lets her curl up into his side as the story of Sarah plays out on screen.

 

xx

 

Harry goes back to the bookshop on Wednesday, book bag slung over her shoulder and her hands hidden in the sleeves of her giant sweater.  Amy looks up from her cataloguing and smiles at her, disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a steaming mug of orange spice tea.  Somehow Amy always knows when Harry’s coming, and Harry doesn’t question it.  She just takes the tea with a grin and vanishes into her corner.

She’s reading a James Herriot book today.  She always finishes them wanting to be a vet, which is ridiculous because she doesn’t think she could stand putting animals to sleep, or the million years of school she’d need to go through to get there.  

It’s starting to snow harder when Harry gets up to return the mug to Amy and have a quick chat about James Herriot.  They both agree -- he’s a genius.  They’re in the middle of trying to convince Amy’s husband Rory to read _All Things Bright and Beautiful_ when the bell tinkles.  Harry turns, almost sure it’s going to be Zayn, but it’s definitely not.  

It’s a girl, shorter than Harry (which isn’t hard, seeing as Harry’s five foot nine), with long, straight brown hair and a springy green peacoat.  Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and she has snowflakes in her hair.  Harry thinks she’s the prettiest person she’s ever seen.  

“Oh,” says the girl, and her fingers are still resting on the doorknob, “I’m sorry, I just -- it’s really cold out and I don’t think anywhere else is open.”  

Her eyes are very, very blue.  Harry opens her mouth.  She has no idea what she’s going to say, and what comes out is,

“I like your coat.”  The girl looks at her and grins, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Thanks.  I like your sweater.”  Her voice is high and melodic, and Harry wants to hear her talk for the rest of forever.  Amy stands up from behind the counter and leans forward.

“Do you need to call anyone and get them to pick you up?” she asks.  The girl shakes her head and flicks her side bangs out of her eyes.  
“I can walk from here,” says the girl.  “My house isn’t too far.”

“Oh, no, sweetie, you are not walking home in this.  Here, call someone to come get you and I’ll make you some tea.  Harry can entertain you.”  Amy places an old phone set on the counter and walks back toward the kitchen.  The girl picks up the reciever, spins the dial, and waits.  

“Hi, Liam, can you come pick me up?  Yeah, I’m at the second-hand bookshop . . . where is it?”  The girl makes a panicked, questioning gesture at Harry, who picks up a pad and a pen of paper and scrawls _corner of walter and hazelnut, it’s called pages_.  “It’s on the corner of Walter and Hazelnut.  Place called Pages.  Alright, see you in a bit.”  She hangs up and sticks out her hand.  “Sorry, by the way, I’m Louis.  Tomlinson.”  Harry shakes her hand.  Her nails are painted deep red.

“I’m Harry Styles,” she says.  “We can go sit, if you want?”  It comes out like a question, even though she hadn’t meant it to.

“Sure!”  Louis sounds far too enthusiastic about sitting somewhere, but Harry doesn’t question it, only leads her to the pile of pillows between bookshelves and sits, legs crossed.  Louis sheds her green coat and sits opposite Harry.  Her shirt underneath is soft and slouchy and pale lavender.  It’s thin fabric, and Harry can see the edges of a black bra through it.  She resolutely looks Louis in the face.

“Do you, um . . . live here, or . . . ?” Louis trails off, like she’s not sure what to say next.

“No, I just like being here,” says Harry, fiddling with her fingers.  Louis’s lips look soft and they curve up at the edges like she’s used to smiling.  There’s a delicate gold chain wrapped around her right wrist.

“I actually think I’ve seen you around school.  You’re friends with Zayn and Niall, right?”  Harry nods, grinning.  

“They’re, like, my platonic soulmates.  You’re friends with . . . Perrie?” Harry guesses.  Louis smiles.

“Yeah.  She’s got a thing for Zayn, I think,” she says, leaning backwards onto the pillows.

“I think Zayn likes her too, to be honest,” Harry tells Louis conspiratorially.  Louis laughs, head thrown back.  The words bubble up in her throat before she can stop them.  “Can I take a picture of you?”  Louis glances up, surprised, and Harry tries to play it off like she hasn’t just said something totally weird, and she’s just about given up on any sort of godly redemption when Louis nods.

Harry grabs her camera from her bag, turns it on.  Louis sits up again, shoulders straight and looking all too posed.  Harry snaps a quick shot, which turns out nicely -- Louis is smiling ever so slightly, looking straight into the lens, fine brown hair fanned over one shoulder -- but it’s not beautiful.  

“You can relax,” Harry says, putting the camera down.  Louis lets out a breath she’s been holding, slouching back into the pillows.  In a flash of brilliance, Harry says the first thing that comes into her mind.  “What did the man say when he lost his tractor?”  It’s the kind of opening line to a joke that you expect to have a clever ending, and Louis glances warily over at Harry, chin propped on the heel of her hand.

“I don’t know, what?”  Harry readies the camera.

“‘Where’s my tractor?’”  It’s so unexpected that Louis bursts out laughing, nose crinkled and eyes nearly shut, and Harry takes the opportunity to snap the photo.  This photo is the one she wanted.  Louis has watercolor edges when she laughs, like she goes ever so slightly out of focus.  All Harry wants to do is make her laugh.

 

xx

 

Louis catches up with Harry on Friday during lunch.  She’s wearing a dark blue skater skirt and black tights under her spring green coat.  Harry has no idea how she’s not absolutely freezing.

“Do you want to go downtown with me later?” she asks.  Harry blinks.

“Uh.  Sure,” she says, hiking her bag up higher on her shoulder.  Louis flashes a blinding smile and dashes away, leaving Harry with a dumbfounded expression on her face and a slip of torn-off notebook paper in her hand, on which a ten-digit number is scribbled.

“Y’alright, mate?”  It’s Zayn, his hand on the small of her back.  She swings around to look at him, holding up the piece of paper.  He takes it and scrutinizes the spidery numbers.  “Louis?” he asks, looking up.  “Louis Tomlinson?  Louis _fucking_ Tomlinson gave you her number?”  Harry nods.

“I’m going to text her,” she decides, reaching for the phone in her back pocket.  She taps out a text and sends it without thinking about it, looks at Zayn.  “What’s lunch today, like green eggs and ham?”

“Basically,” says Zayn, handing her a foil-wrapped chicken burger.  “I got you the least revolting thing.”  Harry grins at him.

“You’re the best, Z,” she says, unwrapping her burger.  

 

Harry 11:47

Where/when do you want me to meet you this afternoon?

 

Louis 11:52

you can meet me at the cafe thingy on branch st at 2:45!

 

Harry 11:58

See you then :)x

 

Louis 12:05

xx

 

The cafe thingy is a place called Rosie’s.  It’s cozy, with copper-topped tables and yellow painted walls.  It also serves the best hot chocolate in town.  When Harry gets there, Louis is already sitting at a table, coat draped over the back of a chair.  She has a book open on the table and is so engrossed in it that she doesn’t notice Harry until Harry taps on the table.  Louis looks up sharply, hand on her heart.

“Oh, Jesus, sorry,” she apologizes, putting the bookmark in her book and shutting it.  Harry smiles and sits, slinging her bag off her shoulder and onto the floor.

“Have you ordered yet?” she asks Louis, who shakes her head.

“I was waiting for you to get here.  Do you want to go up or should I?”  Harry shrugs.

“I will, I guess.  What do you want?”  Louis looks up at the chalkboard over the pickup counter, scanning it before turning back to Harry.

“A small raspberry hot chocolate and a plain bagel with butter.  Here,” she says, handing Harry a five-pound note.  Harry nods and stands up to walk to the counter.  She orders Louis’s hot cocoa and bagel, and also a hot tea and a scone for her, pays, and goes back to the table, where Louis is watching her with keen eyes.

“Do you often invite people down here and then look at them like you’re going to eat them?” Harry asks.  Louis grins, sharp teeth showing.

“Only really special people,” she replies.  There’s a rose-gold men’s watch on Louis’s right wrist.

“Does that make me special, then?”  It’s occured to Harry that maybe Louis isn’t as soft and watercolor as she seems -- maybe she hides her sharp, dangerous edges with pastel nail polish and floral dresses.  Louis sits back in her chair, legs crossed.  She taps the tabletop with her fingernails, which are painted a rosy blush color today.

“I like you, Harry,” she says bluntly.  “I think we’ll make very good friends.”  And maybe they will.

 

xx

 

Two days before Christmas, when school’s been out for a little over twenty-four hours, Harry’s doorbell rings.  Harry runs for it -- she doesn’t want her older sister getting it in case it’s Zayn or Niall, because the teasing would be endless.  She makes it just before Gemma, wrenches the door open.

“Oh.”  It’s Louis standing on her doorstep, wearing dark skinny jeans and a fitted long-sleeve green t-shirt.  

“Hi,” Louis says, smiling.  “I haven’t seen you in almost a whole day.  This is a _tragedy_ , Harry.”  Harry stands back and lets her come in -- she’s a little embarrassed by her current state of dress (black leggings and a sweatshirt advertising Oxford Law), but Louis doesn’t seem to mind.

“How in the world did you find out where I live?” Harry asks, shutting the door and waving pointedly at Gemma, who rolls her eyes and walks down the hall to the kitchen.

“Zayn is very easily persuaded when you offer to buy him a cheese toastie,” Louis tells her, pulling off her coat.  Harry doesn’t let her eyes linger on the dip of Louis’s waist, where her ribcage goes soft at her hips.  She _doesn’t_.

“We can go up to my room, if you want?” she suggests, tearing her eyes away from Louis to grab the remote and turn off the TV (it’s playing the Muppets’ Christmas Carol.  That’s not something she ever wants to admit to liking).

“Absolutely.  I’ve been wondering what your living space looks like,” Louis says.  Harry nods, runs up the stairs.  She can hear Louis climbing the stairs behind her and then turns sharply into her room.

Harry sits on the bed, legs crossed, and watches Louis survey the room.  She walks to one of the windows, where three potted plants sit on the windowsill, providing a stark contrast to the snowy trees outside.  Harry can’t seem to shake the feeling that Louis fits here, in her room.  Louis runs her fingers across the top of Harry’s desk, where Harry’s laptop is, and then sits across from Harry on her bed.

“I like your room,” she says simply.  “It suits you.”  For some reason, Harry feels validated, like Louis’s approval of her room is something she didn’t know she needed until she got it.  She looks out the window next to her bed, watches the snowflakes coming down.

“We should watch a movie.  Or something,” says Harry absently.  Louis’s eyes light up.

“What movie?” she asks.

“I have a romantic comedy with David Tennant and Kelly MacDonald,” says Harry, standing up.  “Do you want to borrow some comfier clothes?”  At Louis’s nod, Harry delves into her closet, rummaging for a moment before finally emerging with another pair of black leggings and a slouchy, oatmeal-colored t-shirt.  She tosses the bundle of clothes at Louis, expecting her to go to the bathroom to change, but she strips off her long-sleeved shirt unashamedly.  Harry stands, frozen, in her closet door.  Because Louis has put on the shirt, and yep, now she’s unbuttoning her jeans.

Harry is out of the room faster than she has ever moved in her life.  Somehow she finds herself in the hall with a strange flipping feeling in her stomach.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, I didn’t even think --” says Louis frantically, following Harry out of Harry’s room (fully clothed, thank goodness).

“No, it’s fine, sorry, I just flipped a little, sorry,” Harry apologizes.  “I’m fine, sorry.”

“Do you still want to watch that movie?”  Louis’s voice is cautious now, like she’s worried Harry will bolt again.

“Yeah, sure.  Yeah, sorry.”  Harry leads the way to her TV room, where she flicks through Netflix until she finds the movie (called The Decoy Bride).  She settles onto the loveseat next to Louis, who’s curled up tight like a cat.

“This is really cute,” says Louis about halfway through the film.  Harry looks at her for a moment.  She’s watching the screen with a faint smile on her lips, eyes so, so blue.  Harry stands up for a moment, reaching for the camera on the table across the room.

She fiddles idly with the zoom toggle for the rest of the movie, listening to Louis’s small reactions.  When the movie ends, she springs to her feet and grins down at Louis.

“Let’s go outside,” she says, holding out her hand.  Louis takes it and lets Harry pull her up off the couch.

“Why?” she asks curiously.  

“So I can take pictures of you.  Go put your clothes back on,” says Harry, and then flushes.  “Not what I meant to say.”  Louis just smiles and runs back upstairs to get changed.  When she comes back down, her hair’s thrown up into a messy ponytail, green coat on.  Harry changes quickly into jeans and a soft shirt and pulls on her own peacoat, a soft felt charcoal one.

“Hazza, you coming?” Louis calls as Harry’s zipping up her combat boots.  

“Yeah, hold up,” Harry replies, standing up and opening the door.  “Come on.”

 

xx

 

The Feelings with a capital F hit Harry during Louis’s seventeenth birthday dinner at a place called Chives in town (everything in their town is cryptically named, usually with just one word, and it makes things easier sometimes but harder the rest of the time) with Liam, Niall, Perrie, and Zayn.  They’re just finishing up the main course, Louis sitting next to Harry and picking chips off Harry’s plate.  The restaurant has low lighting and soft jazz playing in the background, and Harry thinks it’s definitely supposed to be romantic.  

She’s worn a dark teal dress with black sleeves tonight, left her hair wild and curling around her face, and she feels far too dressed up for a birthday dinner with friends.  Louis looks even more dressed up though, in a blush pink chiffon dress and gold jewelry and rosy pink lipstick, her hair in soft waves.  The candlelight (because of course there are candles on each table in the near dark) flickers beautifully off everyone, making them seem almost ethereal.  Louis’s skin shimmers.

“So, Lou,” says Perrie, swirling a chip in ketchup, “any resolutions for your seventeenth year of being?”  Louis shrugs.

“Not yet.  I’m sure I’ll think of some, though,” she says, stealing a mushroom from Harry’s burger.  “Can I have a bite of this?”  Harry, as whipped as she is, nods.

“If you wanted a burger, Louis, why didn’t you just order one?” asks Liam, a brown-haired, puppy-eyed boy that Harry’s seen around school.  Louis rolls her eyes in a long-suffering sort of way.

“Because, _Lee-yum_ , I wanted to preserve the _facade_ of healthy eating,” she responds like he should know better.  Liam gives up and takes a sip of his water.

“I brought you a present,” Harry mentions, placing a small wrapped gift on the table.  Louis looks up at her, eyes wide, like she didn’t expect a present from Harry at all.

“Haz, you didn’t have to do that!” she cries (but she’s tearing into the tissue paper surrounding it).  Her eyes widen and she holds it up for everyone to see -- it’s a sparkling amethyst teardrop on a delicate gold chain.  Perrie leans forward and cups the pendant in her hand, scrutinizes it.

“Wow, Harry,” she says, letting it go.  “You’ve really . . . wow.”  Louis carefully clasps the chain around her neck.  If there is one thing Harry has learned about Louis, it is that she is never careful, and her heart swells when Louis is careful with what Harry has given her.

“Thank you, Haz,” Louis whispers as she hugs Harry, a soft touch, butterfly-like.  And then the moment is gone, and Louis is straightening up and picking at her salad.  Harry pushes a stray curl behind her ear and eats a chip, swirled in garlic aioli.  Liam rolls his eyes and produces a carelessly wrapped square, and Perrie puts a soft tissue-paper bundle on the table.  “You guys!” cries Louis, smiling so hard Harry thinks her face might crack in half.  

Perrie’s bought her a t-shirt and a dress.  Liam’s burned her a CD.  Niall and Zayn awkwardly present her with a handmade card (decorated with a brightly colored Spiderman, drawn by Zayn).  By the end of the gift melee, Louis’s eyes are full of tears.  She thanks everyone individually, and then the waitress brings out a raspberry-chocolate cake and the whole restaurant sings Happy Birthday to Louis, who is proper crying now.  Harry watches her as everyone sings, watches how she frantically tries to swipe the tears away before it’s obvious she’s crying.

And then she smiles brilliantly, and she is radiant, and Harry thinks, _oh, no_.

 

xx

 

Harry takes more pictures of Louis than any other subject she’s ever had.  Most of the pictures are candid -- Louis doing homework, focusing on her French with a tiny crease between her brows, Louis watching a movie, Louis laughing at Harry’s dumb jokes, Louis curled up between Zayn and Liam, Louis twirling in a new skirt.  Louis looking up at Harry with cherry-red lips and icy-blue eyes through a veil of sleep, cheeks flushed and hair mussed.  Louis with her eyes closed, listening to a mopey song she loves.  Louis, singing.  Louis.

Louis stays the night at Harry’s house frequently.  Harry likes it when Louis is there, choosing a movie for them to watch, or putting on her newest mopey album, or performing for Harry a new song she’s written.  All the songs she writes are slow, sung in whispers and accompanied by the soft plucking of Harry’s old guitar, which Louis found in the attic and claimed for herself (she taught herself how to play in under a month -- Harry could never get the hang of it).  

They learn how to make the best hot chocolate either of them have ever tasted, and Niall’s eyes go wide when he finds out the secret ingredient is a little cayenne pepper.  Harry and Louis laugh about that for _hours_.  Soon Louis is writing parts into her songs for Harry to sing, and she complies, relishing in the way Louis’s high soprano mixes with Harry’s syrupy alto.  The harmonies are well written, the words slow and soft and reassuring.  Harry loves those nights, when Louis shows up on her doorstep with her notebook and a grin.

In May, Louis goes to her first ever open mic, wears a dress she’s stolen from Harry.  She leaves her hair in gentle waves, swipes on pink lipstick and black eyeliner.  Harry sits in the front row as Louis perches on the wooden stool in front of the microphone and begins plucking at the strings of Harry’s guitar.  

It’s a song Harry’s never heard before.  Louis pointedly doesn’t look at Harry as she sings about green and spring and curls until the last note has been played.  Harry swipes at her tears (they came without her permission) and smiles up at Louis, who lets out a huge breath into the mic and the audience laughs.  Harry’s world narrows to Louis and her blue, blue eyes and her tentative, hopeful smile.  

Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s up and out of her chair and stumbling up the stairs to the little stage and kissing Louis, hands cupped around her face.  Louis makes a little sound and Harry thinks _oh god I’ve got it all wrong_ and she pulls away.  The world comes back into focus as she looks down at Louis, curved softly around the old guitar, watching her with a little smile on her face.  And now people are clapping, and Harry looks around.

The crowd is watching, some grinning, some smiling ever so slightly, and they are _all clapping_.  Harry blushes and Louis inclines her head, and then they walk offstage, hand in hand, Louis carrying Harry’s old guitar.

 

xx

 

Niall notices first, how they curl around each other on movie night.  Harry watches him realize and pokes Louis as his eyes widen and he runs a hand through his hair.  Louis puts a finger to her lips and winks, and he smiles and nods.  Niall’s a good friend.

Perrie realizes next, and tells Zayn immediately after.  They turn up to school holding hands and looking smug, and they hug Harry and Louis and laugh jubilantly.  

Liam finds out last, a month after the open mic, and it’s only when Harry and Louis share a quick goodbye peck as Louis leaves their lunch table to take a test.  His eyes get round and he inhales quickly.

“Are you two, like . . . _together_?” he asks, looking shell-shocked.  Harry nods slowly -- she’d thought everyone would have known by now.  Liam looks at Zayn and Niall, who are editing one of Niall’s English papers.

“Literally everyone else knew, mate,” says Zayn offhandedly, making a mark on the paper with a red pen.  Liam smiles at Harry.

“Well, I’m happy for you two,” he says, hugging her across the table.  She tells Louis about it later, curled together on Louis’s bed in their pajamas, and Louis says she feels bad for not telling Liam, and Harry kisses her.

It’s a give-take thing.


End file.
